Silence and Sound
by AliveAgain-33
Summary: He refused to sentence their children to watch their father slip from life's grasp as he had; she understood. But his case had been insufferable to hear when all had already been carved in stone.  Boris/Marisa
1. Trust Is a Four Letter Word

**A/N: **I've been trying to get this out of my head for a while, but I finally had to write it, otherwise it was going to keep bothering me til January. Reviews welcome. :)

* * *

Born a native Cuban, she had never dreamt of Happily Ever After. The violence and apprehension woven into each moment of life didn't allow for fairytale endings. The notion that love conquered all and, somehow, having the man of her dreams and a family would banish the grave ills of this life - or at least obscure them from view - was an idiotic, infuriating fallacy. Some around her clung to love as a curative, desperately hoping that tomorrow would convey traces of a more auspicious future. Not her. Bringing herself to do so meant ignorance of reality, and she could not live like that. False hope ushered in only further pain and disappointment; faith without action meant nothing.

She witnessed far too often the inky stain borne on the soul of humanity. Was all too torturously aware of what humans were capable of. A man had never had a place in her chaotic life puzzle comprised of jagged pieces with diamond-sharp edges. She would only bloody him, leave him disfigured with scars snaking across his once perfect form.

But Boris had carved out a place. Without even meaning to, he had slipped with such ease into a minefield that would have destroyed anyone else. He smoothed her edges and crafted beauty where there had once reigned only pain and controlled chaos, utterly unaffected by the deleterious, destructive substance from which she was carved. Because he himself had become harsh and serrated by this life. He had allowed her to see a part of himself he didn't dare reveal.

The pain locked away deep in his eyes. Guarded from the world around him. Languidly, compassionately, he coaxed back her armor, allowing her to do the same for him, until every hideous scar lay exposed before his eyes. Even then, he still thought her beautiful.

A single moment could tear him away from her again.

* * *

The click of high heels resounded off the title floor in the silence of the all but deserted hospital. It was a blissful respite from the insanity of a day overwrought with needless hysterics and infuriating complications. Marisa drew a deep breath. Fifteen minutes. She could hold herself together around him for that long. Shoving the exam room door open with her shoulder, she smirked at her most irksome and stubborn patient. Boris looked so incredibly different in jeans.

"_Buenas noches_." Boris flashed her a smile that sent chills down her spine and leaned closer to kiss her on both cheeks.

"_Buenas noches_," she returned.

She swiftly dawned an air of professionalism and fished a pen from the pocket of her lab coat, scanning over the chart in her hand. The emotional distance was a necessity when half their professional contact consisted of her prodding him with sharp, shiny objects and causing him a great deal of discomfort. Though he never seemed to mind later…

Flipping open the file, Marisa tossed it onto the exam table next to him and began to elucidate the rows of numbers and figures from his most current labs.

Fifteen minutes. The sickening sensation creeping over her floating on his subtle cologne suggested otherwise.

Something about the way Boris kept staring at her sent her stomach tangling into hopeless knots. The near migraine that had besieged her all day pounded behind her eyes relentlessly in the harsh florescent light.

"Are you feeling ok?" Traces of pain and something he couldn't catch shadowed her features.

Suddenly, a cold wave of nausea swept over her as the subtle sent of his cinnamon cologne wrapped itself around her as he leaned closer. Taking a deep breath, she attempted to force down the bitter taste in the back of her throat with little success. He eyed her suspiciously, wary, watched as her elegant features turned yet another shade greener.

"Huh? Oh… Yes. I'm all right. Just a headache," she dismissed easily after a moment. "Too much stress."

"Are you sure it's not residual from-"

"It's ok. Don't worry about it." The words came out a bit harsher than she'd meant, but the last thing she needed was for him to start investigating. Cold air gradually filled her lungs, managing to deter it for the moment. "I'm all right. I promise."

He didn't quite believe it, but he let it go. A number of years had taught him the value of refraining from launching into every battle that presented itself; otherwise they would have killed each other by now. Still, his intuition screamed that something vital was awry. Boris examined the throbbing red slash highlighting his arm, contemplating whether or not to postpone it. In an instant, Marisa acted as if the exchange had never occurred, no trace of the guarded fear that had haunted her gaze only moments before.

A suspiciously sheepish look dawned his features. "Since we're here, can you take a look at this?" Boris extended his left arm to reveal a nasty gash running the length of his forearm. She shot him a glare.

"I'm afraid to ask… but what did you do?"

"Um…" The guilty look said enough.

"Never mind. I don't want to know. At least it wasn't a shark this time." Rolling her eyes, she gestured for him to let her see. "Needs stitches."

Unable to watch, Boris averted his gaze. Needles had never made the list of his favorite things. Instead, he focused on the woman in front of him. She looked amazing. Pinstriped black slacks accompanying his favorite pair of high heels made her legs seem incredibly long and an elegant top hugged her body in all the right places. It was enough to make any man's head spin. Silently, his conscience reprimanded him; he shouldn't be thinking of her like that here, especially not when she was in the middle of sewing his arm back together. She smirked teasingly at him, chuckling lightly.

"Anything else I should know about? Is the next thing you tell me going to be that you killed someone and you want me to clean up that mess too?" He slid down to his feet and pressed his lips to her cheek.

"Of course not. I'd get Hank to do that." Then, "Do you want to grab dinner?" Marisa glanced at her watch: 1805.

"I can't. I'm sorry. I still have some things I need to take care of. I'll see you at home?" Her tone made him uneasy; he couldn't help but get the feeling she was concealing something.

"Sure. Just don't stay too late, ok? I do want to actually see you tonight."

A weighty sigh escaped her as she watched Boris diaper out the glass doors. She could breathe again. She'd been avoiding him, finding excuses to work late, sometimes all night if she could engineer it. The feat had become increasingly difficult to manage as time wore on. And evidence of her secret continued to mount… A voice behind her nearly jolted her from her skin.

"Sorry. Did I scare you?"

"It's fine," she shook her head as she turned to face him. "I appreciate you being willing to do this even though it's rather late." Dr. Ndutu only grinned, relieving a set of brilliant teeth that shone against his deep brown skin.

"Not a problem. Happy to do whatever I can for you."

In the last weeks, he had attended to her four broken ribs, among various other injuries and blessedly hadn't inquired as to their cause. Over a decade in refugee camps in three civil war riddled East African countries had branded the marks of torture into his mind's eye.

At hearing her startled voice, Boris halted mid-step and spun on his heal to see what happened. He saw Marisa disappear into an exam room with another doctor, Ndutu wasn't it?

"How are you feeling, Marisa? Any better?"

"A little." A slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Though I can't manage to eat much."

Slipping out into the icy black rain, he racked his memory for reasons she would need to see him, for her curious behavior. One kept gnawing at his stomach, blatantly refusing dismissal. She was sick. But what would keep her from telling him?

His affliction had brought their lives crashing together. Now hers threatened to rip them apart.

* * *

She found herself curled up on a black leather couch with her lover in his office, buried under the mountain of papers lording over a once pristine glass coffee table. Marisa allowed her eyes to drift shut for a moment, utterly exhausted. Sleep had evaded her with the skill of a champion martial artist. Food had become her constant enemy the past weeks. Despite her stomach's demands for appeasement, she'd discovered precious little yet to placate the morning sickness.

Reluctantly, she all but pried her eyes open again, letters swimming on the page before her in a sea of swirling ebony. Letting her head fall back, a contented sigh rushed from her lungs. The warm sun caressing her skin felt amazingly wonderful. Freedom felt wonderful. Her injuries were slowly mending. Abused muscles didn't protest as much, though they still screamed loudly each time she dared move in the wrong direction. Shifting to coax feeling back into her numbing legs, Marisa winced at the sharp stab of burning pain shooting through her ribs.

His world of opulence and blatant wealth felt so unsettling, alien. Stealing a glance at him from her peripheral vision, the weight of trepidation and fear settled over her again. Their disjointed union had plagued her for weeks, nothing and thousands of miles separating them all at once.

"Why are you so quiet, _mí amor_?" Boris' voice drifted past her rest desperate brain. The way he could see through her soul sent shivers down her spine.

Lethargically, Marisa lifted her gaze to discover a perturbed expression had overtaken his features. She nodded as he scrawled his name and propelled another file onto the glass table. Worry ate at him. She hadn't been able to keep food down for days, though she still insisted on working herself into the ground. Gently, slipped two fingers under her chin and lifted her dark brown gaze to meet his own, searching.

Tenderly, he leaned in and covered her mouth with his.

"Are you feeling any better?" She threw a dark look at his coffee next to the paperwork she had surmised was the culprit for her churning stomach, but held her silence.

"_Sí. Estoy bien_," she assured him, though he didn't quite believe it.

Covertly, he moved to kidnap all but the top piece of paper in her lap and held it hostage on his corner of the table.

"You don't need to help me with this, you know," he reminded her pointedly. "You should be sleeping, not enraging yourself with this chaos I've somehow managed." In response, she arched a perfect eyebrow at the man who had become so many things to her.

"And you do remember you have an actual desk, ¿_sí_?" He simply shrugged, dismissing it. Until last night, that too had been replete with flattened trees containing God only knew what. He wasn't inclined to repeat that monstrosity, however comical it may have become thanks to Marisa's speculation. The Keebler elves had apparently decided to extend their exploits to secretarial work. Somebody had to manage the magic cookie empire. And it sure as heck wasn't him.

Nervously, he stole sideways glances at her as they worked. _Just say it!_ his conscience prodded him. _There's no harm in it. You have a right to know. _But courage failed him, fearful of the answers she might give.

How could he voice his need to be close to her? The terror that welled up in him at the thought of loosing her, when he had come so close already? Ghastly nightmares still plagued him of finding her lifeless, mangled body discarded somewhere deep in the forest. He couldn't begin to imagine what it must be like for her.

"What?" her terse, demanding question abruptly fractured the silence. "You've been staring at me like you want to ask me something. What is it?" Without warning, the words poured out as he met her gaze and he took her hand.

"I'm afraid of loosing you. I'm terrified that at any moment, I'll open my eyes to find that- that they killed you-." His voice caught, rough with emotion. "I'm sorry. I can't imagine what it must have been like." Then, "Why do you keep alienating me? Why are you holding me at arm's length?" Pen froze on paper as muscles tensed and Marisa slowly looked away.

"It is simpler this way." Shoving herself to her feet, she vanished.

* * *

She never cried. Streams of salty tears traversed down her cheeks, staining her clothing. She never cried. Memories of deathly low, jagged words slamming into her screamed in her head, overflowing. The fire searing his gray irises, bent on the course he had set for himself in life. He refused to sentence their children to watch their father torpidly slip from life's grasp as he had; she understood. But his case had been insufferable to hear when all had already been carved in stone. She _never_ cried…

At last, he found her in the garden. Cautiously, Boris stepped closer. She stood frozen, arms wrapped around her midsection, sightlessly staring into the distance, what he could only guess were nightmares flashing before her vision. Imperceptibly, her muscles tensed, as if sensing his presence. For a moment, Marisa remained silent. He lovingly placed a hand on her shoulder and she spun to meet him.

In an instant, the fire he had come to know so intimately leapt back into her deep brown eyes, though it was tinged with an extrinsic brokeness.

"My parents died in prison." Her nearly melodic voice was laden with melancholy and long buried grief, each word measured. "When I was seven, my father was arrested for treason. Accused of assisting the Americans in another plot to overthrow the government." Blinking tears away, she failed to ward off their siege on her voice. "Soldiers came in the middle of the night with what I'm now sure were AK-47s, ordering him to come with them. When he refused, they threatened to shoot him in front of us. I saw him go pale in the moonlight as he turned to say good-bye."

Marisa reached up to erase tears from her cheeks, unwilling, even in that moment, to betray so much weakness. Fists clenched painfully tight in a bid to hold herself together. She could still hear the sharp crack of terrifying gunfire shot into the death-black night as a final warning. "I clung to him, pleading with him not to leave me. My mother finally tore me from his arms. A neighbor told us they put him before a firing squad five weeks later. When I was eighteen, they came for my mother. That time, I did not cry. I had nothing left in me. The sorrow was too much. Within a month, she was dead. Raped. Tortured to death. Her body flung into a ditch somewhere. Like my father's." She drew a shaky breath, searching for the strength to continue. "I knew I was destined to share their fate the moment I was arrested."


	2. Two Lies and a Truth

I use military time in this. Also, I might have to change the rating at some point. This isn't your typical fluffy Royal Pains story…

* * *

_She only stared blankly at the wall, lost in thought, numb, while the doctor's words raced past her, barely brushing her conscience. Explanations, advice, even a note of congratulations, though it was most likely no more than a professional reflex even at thirty-two. _

_"Marisa? Did you hear what I just said?" Nodding, she repeated his words verbatim, her tongue effortlessly wrapping around the Greek and Latin that had been the bane of her existence in medical school. His eyebrows edged closer to his hairline, thrown off guard. At the moment, she possessed neither the energy nor the concern to explain she was a geneticist. At this point, knowing she held an MD would probably only intimidate him and beget more headaches than it was worth. Sacrificing her pride and allowing him to patronize her was a reasonable price to pay to maintain what little remained of her sanity._

_"No one came with you tonight…" he at last broke the silence. "Is the father supportive?" The poor man sounded uncomfortable, embarrassed almost. He was skilled, but oh so young for his profession. Of course, not that she was much older…_

_"He couldn't get off work," she dismissed shortly, falling silent again. "This is not the last time I will see you."_

_She could see no reason to burden him with the labyrinthine details of her personal life. At 1800, he had no doubt encountered enough hysterical and overtly hormonal, emotional women for a single day. Marisa couldn't contain a silent laugh at the double-edged irony. In truth, Boris had been quite disturbed at discovering she had yet another doctor's appointment and being disallowed to come._

_"Have a good night," he offered at last, tearing a script from his pad and holding it out to her._

_

* * *

_

Firelight cast dancing shadows on the walls of the library. Red, yellow, and orange illuminated the blackness around her, the leaping flames mesmerizing. Exhaustion wove itself into her form, but sleep refused to come. She cast a furtive glance to Boris from the corner of her eye. She needed him so desperately, but she didn't dare reach out for fear that he would burn her. To see the utter hatred and condemnation burning in his eyes for what she had done. Caustic guilt ate away at her soul, though half of her knew it was senseless and misplaced. She couldn't bear to have him think that of her. Yet, selfishly, she needed a little more time to cherish what it felt like to be loved so deeply. A little more time to brand it into her memory.

No. Determinedly, she shook her head, forcing herself back to the present. She couldn't do that to either of them. It wasn't fair to drag this out any longer. He deserved to know what had happened to her. No matter how hard she tried, the overwhelming sense of abhorrent filth clung to her, soaking into her skin. It was part of her now. Sharp tears assaulted her eyes, magnifying the lump lodged in her throat, chocking her.

"Are you ok?" Her eyes snapped up in alarm to find Boris' gray orbs fixed intensely on her. "You're deathly pale." Shaking her head, Marisa attempted to form a cohesive thought, unable.

"No- I- It's nothing. I just need to sleep."

Shoving herself to her feet, vertigo overran her senses as blackness ate at the edges of her vision. Instinctively, he reached out to wrap his arms around her as he watched the strength flee her body. Pulling her closer, he simply held her for a moment that seemed as if it were years. Trepidation met her when light seeped past her eyelids again. Despite herself, she allowed her head to drop to his shoulder, exhaustion on the edge of victory. She hadn't truly slept for weeks… He reached up to run his fingers through her locks, at a loss for anything more to do. At that moment, he just needed to hold her.

"Is this what all the doctors' appointments were about?"

For a moment, she couldn't answer. Everything within her screamed for her to tell him. But she could only see the remembered hatred in his eyes. It deluged her mental vision, so incredibly at odds with the powerful love and concern she witnessed in his gaze now. It would be nothing in contrast with the response she knew her entire confession would garner. Desperately, she forced herself to put space between their bodies, all but yanking her head from his touch and stepping back.

"Hank can look you over in the morning, make sure-"

Harsh, impenetrable stone replaced liquescent brown. "I just need to sleep," she ground out the words forcefully.

"This is far beyond exhaustion!"

"Boris-!"

"You've been avoiding me all week. I haven't seen you eat anything in just as long, maybe longer. You're exhausted and yet you can never seem to sleep at night-"

"Thank you for telling me what I already know." Nails dug painfully into her palms in an effort to control her temper, voice tight. "I'm already perfectly well aware of that. I do not need a baby-sitter." Nightmares deluged her whenever she dared close her eyes. The memories of wretched men playing her captors, of the carnal desire sketched shamelessly on their faces. The self-assured smirk from the knowledge they would never be reprimanded…

"I'm worried about you, Marisa. You get this far-off look in your eyes like you're dead and it's scaring me."

He never admitted to fear. It was a trait they both shared, for better or worse.

Opening his mouth as if to say something, he closed it just as quickly and cast his gaze out into the darkness for a moment.

"I can't read your mind," she prompted tersely, glaring sharply at his head. "If there's something you need to tell me…" Marisa let the prompt hang suspended in the air between them.

For a moment, she thought if one of them lit a match, the flames would consume them in an instant. His jaw tightened, the slim hold on his temper disintegrating.

"How can you have the nerve to-? Something -I- want to tell _you_? You can't possibly be serious!"

Sparks of anger borne on a myriad of passions leapt between them, threatening to strike an inferno. Obdurate, both fiercely held their ground, until he gradually stepped backward. Pointedly, he snatched a translucent orange bottle from a table and held it aloft before her. No label. The original with the prescription lay stashed in her desk drawer at the hospital, where he'd never encounter it.

"I found these." Insistent concern seeped past the frustrated anger in his gaze, banishing the coldness. Though the anger remained underneath. "Is there anything you want to tell me? Is there something I should know?"

He'd struck the match.

"I'm not some damsel in distress who needs saving, Boris!"

"I love you and would greatly prefer you _not_ be tortured to death in prison, so I have a _hero complex_? Marisa, I just-" Jaw clenched, he cast his gaze to heaven in a plea to make her understand. "I want to protect you. I can't stand seeing you like this. Knowing something's wrong and there's nothing I can do to help you."

"_¡Ay, Dios mio! Jesús, ¿por qué?_"

Letting her eyes fall closed, Marisa took a deep breath to keep him from seeing the tears escaping from under her eyelids. She despised herself for shedding tears over this man who had become part of her in every way imaginable. It was completely illogical, possibly even idiotic, but seeing her cry shattered his heart. In all the years he'd known her, he'd never seen her cry. Crossing to her, he tenderly brushed the tears away. She tensed as she realized he was mere inches before her.

"Tell me what it is," he petitioned softly.

"Nothing," she insisted still. "It's none of your concern. Don't worry yourself over it."

"It's already too late for that." The edge slipped back into his voice slightly. "Something's wrong and I know it's serious. You wouldn't be avoiding me like this if it were really nothing. You wouldn't be crying."

"Darling, tell me what's wrong," he pleaded.

"No. You've done enough for me already. It's too much to ask of you." The overflowing emotion in her orbs sent the words slamming into each other in his throat.

"I won't let you go through this alone." The severe intensity burning in his eyes only served to compound her apprehension. "Marisa, what did I do to hurt you like this? You can trust me. I won't ever abandon you."

Marisa managed to slip into the hall before Boris caught up. Slipping his arms around her waist, he gently coaxed her to face him.

"I'm pregnant." The words came out in a near whisper laden with pain and sorrow. For an eternity, he stood suspended in shocked silence. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. The look on his features…

"Marisa-" That was why she'd been sick…

"I expect nothing. You have no obligation to me." Joy shattered in an instant to wounded confusion. Pivoting on her heals, she made to leave. Reflexively, his hand shot out to snatch her wrist.

"_Marisa_." A command, not a request - sharp, angry.

Apprehensively, she complied, turning to face him again. Traces of self-doubt only served to magnify the naked hurt exposed in his gaze. The knowledge the love of his life didn't trust him with something so vital stung like betrayal. Gray irises narrowed dangerously.

"What do you mean I have no obligation to you?"

"It is none of your concern." She couldn't force herself to confess the second blow. Boris would hate her then, if he didn't already, and that might very well kill her.

"It's none of my concern that you're _pregnant_?"

An indecipherable expression passed over his features, sending ice shooting through her limbs. Before either could say another word, the shrill ringing of her cell cracked the explosive silence. Snatching the vile thing from her pocket, her eyes fell to the screen. Marisa recognized the number in an instant.

"It's Jill. I'm on call. I have to go."

"Tell her this is more important. You can't just-"

Boris watched her departing back as she slipped out the door, stomach churning with guilt and self-directed anger. He'd destroyed her life and then made her believe that he hated her for it.

_You idiot bastard!_

_

* * *

_

Sharp green numbers cut into the darkness: 0345. The distant tap of her heals on tile had betrayed Marisa's return almost an hour ago. Since then, she'd seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Banishing his pride, he surrendered to the persistent voice at the back of his conscience demanding he go find her. Desolate halls magnified every minute sound ten-fold.

Perplexed when he didn't find her in their room, Boris stood comatose for what seemed like hours, Marisa's words ricocheting through his mind. For the life of him, he couldn't recall the last time they'd stayed in the same house and not shared a bed. Regardless of how angry they might have been with each other, it had never driven either of them away like this before. Hours later, after searching every place that came to mind, he discovered her curled up on the couch in his mother's former study at the far end of the house. Case files lay strewn across the floor.

Icy foreboding assaulted him as he stepped through the threshold. The image of his unconscious lover lay eerily juxtaposed against the memory of his mother's lifeless body flung across the desk, rivers of blood cascading from the dagger she'd plunged into her own heart. Two days after his father drew his final breath. Witnessing Death gradually drag him six feet under the earth had driven any hope from her grasp ages ago - had eventually stolen her away with him. He swallowed hard.

There had been so much blood…

Boris never meant to harm Marisa. Didn't she understand he couldn't force the same fate on her? On their children? He desperately begged God that Marisa carried their daughter. There had been only males in his family for five generations. Perhaps she would not share his curse. Silently, he approached her sleeping form. Arms wrapped protectively around her middle, still-drying tears glistening on her cheeks in the moonlight. Crisp night air stung his lungs, still caught off guard. He'd never seen her cry before tonight; he couldn't help but wonder how often she had in the past month and he'd been oblivious to her pain. Gently, he lifted her into his arms, cautious not to wake her, and took her back to their room where she belonged.

_Eyes hard as stone bored into her. His voice cut just as deep, through her heart._

"_Do you even know whose it is? What else are you not telling me? "_

_"Boris, I'm- I'm sorry." She could hardly speak through her raw throat. "I never meant for this to happen."_

_Breath fled from her lungs at his harshness. She didn't hear what else he said. He might as well have just shot her. Tears burned her eyes, threatening to overflow. The unspoken insult screamed in his stare._

'_Filthy whore.'_


	3. Fear

_Por fin! _Sorry I'm two weeks late with this. My apologies. My lovely computer decided to trash every digital file I had to my name right before I posted. Hence, I had to rewrite the whole glorious thing. (Dare I say, I think it's much better.) And Jonathan's last name should be Nduta not Ndutu. Typo in the first chapter. My fault.

Also, I can't figure out the timeline for the show to save my life. All I know is that it definitely isn't in real time. That said, I think this story is about a month and a half ahead of cannon. I'll try and make cannon developments fit as best I can, but if there are any discrepancies, it's because I didn't have the information when I wrote it. Feedback/constructive criticism is much appreciated.

* * *

"Look. Dr. Caseras. I _really_ appreciate this."

"No problem," Marisa smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm glad I could help."

"My wife lost her job a couple months back, and with it went the health insurance." Jakob grinned wryly. "Though we never really had any to begin with. Nothing useful anyway. And well… You know. It's not like this thing's going away any time soon. I don't want her to get worried. She has enough issues without adding this." Zipping her bag shut and slinging it over her shoulder, she smirked.

"I'll see you in three weeks. If you don't call me, I _will_ come find you." He chuckled at that. She stopped at the door and turned, serious. "And your wife deserves to know what's going on. You need to tell her. Now." He only raised his eyebrows questioningly as the door clicked shut behind her.

_Hypocrite,_ her conscience bit back in a heartbeat. _Follow your own advice._

Sunlight flirtatiously brushed her skin as gravel crunched under her feet. Blessed silence resounded across the still, mid-morning air. For the moment, she could breathe. Tension that had wound itself like a spring inside her uncurled a little. Boris had been strangely calm, acted as if nothing between them had shifted. What he chose to keep silent about revealed far more than his words. Pinpricks scattered up her arms; something felt wrong. Rounding the corner, she caught sight of a Latino man in a suit leaning nonchalantly against her car. Every nerve in her body lit with a deep, near-paralyzing fear she'd thought she could banish from her memory. Suddenly, she was eighteen again.

_The iron door slammed shut behind her, sealing her fate with it. Ominous, coal-black night reached out to swallow her, ushering her deep within itself. From the corner, a grim statue immediately came to life. Large, calloused hands searched her fatigues for any hint of treachery. Clicking the magazine back in place, he returned the gun that had become her lifeline in this world replete with demons shrieking of hell. Before her loomed one of them, broad shoulders and proud stance radiating authority._

"_Caseras, we have been extremely impressed with your accomplishments. Physical and academic. You're an extremely intelligent young woman. You wish to become a doctor, correct?" She nodded curtly in conformation, unable to trust herself to speak. A malicious glint shown in his black irises that chilled her bones. "Good. You'll be transferred to the Guard division, effective immediately. We have an assignment for you."_

Heart pounding in her chest, Marisa shot a final prayer to God as she came face to face with a history she never wished to claim.

"Why are you here?" she demanded, voice dangerously low. It frightened her how quickly and effortlessly she could slip back into a soldier, even after twenty years.

"Ah, _Doctora Marisa Caseras_. For someone with your reputation, you are an infuriatingly difficult woman to track down." A lethal smirk played at his mouth as his steely obsidian gaze cut into her. "A brilliant _fantasma_."

Instantly, her body hollowed out, ice crashing over her at the term. A name she had heard far too often in the army. A name soaked with blood and lethal guilt.

"What do you want from me, Soto?" Though she already knew, she needed to hear him say it.

"Me? I want nothing. Your government however..." he allowed the threat hang, knowing she could feel the noose slipping around her neck. The man chuckled darkly as he saw her eyes covertly train on the weapon holstered at his side. "It never leaves you, does it? No matter how hard you try. It will always be a part of you. As I am sure you are well aware of my reach." Straightening, he lightly kicked a tire and nodded in approval. Colonel Soto started in the opposite direction down the road. "You've done quite well for yourself, Caseras. German duke isn't he? You seem to truly love him. It would be a tragedy to see all that ripped away."

* * *

She leaned her shoulder against a door frame, eyes sweeping over the churning sea of party guests. It struck her as odd, though amusing, that a man that so valued privacy would throw some of the best parties the Hamptons had ever seen. He man in question stood next to her, stealing admiring glances as her when he thought she wasn't looking. Her exchange with Soto replayed in her mind on an endless loop. Frustrated, she shook her head, futilely attempting to dislodge the memories. This wasn't working; she needed distraction. It had been _almost _five minutes. Boris' eyes darted back to the polychromatic mass of humanity that had laid siege to his house as she smirked at him. Insistently, she lightly tugged his arm, refusing to surrender.

"Come on, Boris. You can't be MIA from your own party." He shot her an irked look, though he couldn't help smiling. "Dance with me. Please? Besides, you're the one that dragged me out here."

Tilting his head curiously to one side, he finally conceded with a sigh. Marisa took his hand, leading him into the throng. Gradually, he began to relax; she always seemed to have that effect on him. No pretenses, no bargaining, no deception: Marisa was the only person he could be himself around, who loved him for who he was instead of what he could give her. Subtlety sweet perfume teased him relentlessly.

"You need to unwind," Marisa declared next to his ear. In response, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her closer. Passionately, he took her mouth under his, tongue grazing her lower lip. He chucked lightly at the mischievous glint in her eyes mixed with unabashed surprise when he finally let her catch her breath.

Evan couldn't believe his eyes.

"Oh my gosh!" Furiously, he jabbed at his brother's shoulder next to him. 'Hank. Hank, Hank, Hank, Hank, Hank." Rolling his eyes, his older brother obliged and did a 180.

"What, Evan? I'm busy."

"I know, but _dude." His eyebrows _edged closer to his hairline and he nodded pointedly at their boss and Hank's friend/medical rival/co-worker/whatever the heck he'd come up with this week. "Boris and Marisa? I though he was one of those 'proper aristocrat' types, but I guess I was wrong." Hank signed heavily, though secretly he shared his sentiments. It wasn't exactly the novelty of the sight, especially in a room like this where a good number of people could make a stripper blush. They were tame in comparison. But he never would have thought either would be comfortable with that level of public display. _Very_ interesting...

"Evan, it's called ballroom dancing. An extremely modified version at that."

"_No_, it's called sex on hardwood."

She loved the feeling of his body against hers. The effortless, fluid motion as they danced, as if they could read each other's thoughts. From the corner of his eye, Boris caught sight of Evan gawking at his lover, but shoved aside his jealousy. Marisa was a beautiful woman; he should be used to other men blatantly staring by now. But it didn't mean he had to like it. He swallowed hard as his hands slid back up to her shoulders. Instantly, anger melded with desire as his fingertips discovered her rough, raised scars, sketching pictures in the darkness of what had caused them. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he forced the enmity from his voice as he spoke next to her ear.

"You look beautiful tonight." Startled, she looked up to find him sending someone a death glare over her shoulder. She couldn't help but laugh at the seething glare in his eyes.

"You're getting territorial," she smirked. "Jealous?"

"Yes," he half growled in her ear. Something about that seemed unbelievably sexy... Marisa arched an eyebrow, urging him to explain. "The most amazing, beautiful, intelligent woman in the world is in love with me and we're going to have a family together. And you expect me _not_ to be jealous? You're _mine._ Under no circumstances whatsoever am I sharing you." A hand drifted down to thoughtfully skim the gold band on his left middle finger.

"Why do you still have this?"

"I was never quite strong enough to walk away and pretend our relationship was only a dream," he admitted softly.

It had been years since she had seen that emotion in his eyes.

Taking his hand, Marisa lead him through the crush of hot bodies out the door. A cool midnight breeze caressed her skin, sending shivers up her spine. They wandered away from the hectic rush of the party, into blessed solitude and silence.

'_You seem to truly love him. It would be a tragedy to see all that ripped away.'_

Chilled air rushed into her lungs at the reminder of Soto's threat. Despite how much she loathed the bastard, she had to admit he was right. Startled, Boris' head whipped around towards her at the strangled sound. It was better for him to know the truth. Perhaps loosing her wouldn't hurt so much then. He thought something horridly close to grief stole into her bright eyes. But it was gone just as quickly as it appeared. A single question refused dismissal; he had to know.

_Come on, idiot. Five words. It's an innocent question._

"How long have you known? About the baby?"

"There's something else you need to know." The words seemed so despicably pedestrian for the ominous feeling stabbing at him.

"Just answer me first. Please."

"I'll be ten weeks tomorrow."

Ten weeks… Something about that number ate at him. Halting mid-step, Boris gently gripped her arm to coax her to face him. Bridled anger and hurt confusion stole into his voice.

"What in the _world_ makes you think you can tell me you're with child and then simply walk away as if it's nothing?" Silence stretched between them like an archer's bow, ready to snap. Marisa's eyes hardened to harsh obsidian in the darkness, flashing with devastating anguish.

Understanding chilled his blood.

Everything she didn't say. Didn't need to.

"It's not yours," she managed to keep her voice from shaking.

The look that seized his eyes... Anger, agony, uncertainty, frustration, sorrow. And the fire blazing underneath and over everything. All born of pure, unadulterated wrath.

Shame thrust an icy blade through her chest, stealing her breath, threatening to kill her.

"Darling... _Querida..."_ _He can't even say my name._

"I'm sorry." Burning stray tears slid down her cheeks, burning her skin like acid. She pivoted sharply on her heel back towards the house, unable to bare what she saw etched into her lover's features. I'm so sorry."

* * *

Furious, he snapped his phone shut, his temper restrained by a thread. Could that man _never_ follow directions? He knew his Korean wasn't _that_ bad. Resisting the impulse to heave his cell out the window, he collapsed into his chair, head in his hands. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the image of the utter devastation and dear haunting her eyes. The past two days had blurred together in a dizzying swirl.

He could effortlessly handle board meetings and business negotiations with the most powerful people in the word. But the thought of Marisa pregnant unnerved him worse than anything he had ever faced. Of helplessly watching her suffer, knowing he could do nothing to ease her pain.

She hadn't even told him when her very life was in danger.

"Excuse me, sir?" Cotrell stood in the door, nervously wringing his hands before disappearing down the hall. Next to his retreating assistant stood a powerful brunette woman holding an FBI badge held aloft between her index and middle fingers.

"Special Agent Elizabeth Shields. I need to speak with you regarding your relationship to Marisa Caseras." Unabashedly, she strode into the room as if she owned the place. We have it on good authority that you have had a number of dealings with the Cuban government."

Rising to his feet, Boris silently thanked God that Eddie R. Lawson currently resided on another continent. Otherwise he might very well strangle him.

* * *

Jonathan Nduta's head snapped up at the sound of knuckles tapping on his door. "Marisa. Good to see you."

"Johnathan? Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Of course." The man smiled warmly as he stood and motioned for her to follow him into the crisp night air.

"I'm sorry it's so late."

"No, it's perfectly all right. How are you feeling?"

"Physically, better. My injuries are healing. The morning sickness is still bad, but nothing nothing I didn't expect," she shrugged. Blessed silence intertwined with the hum of crickets floating through the background. Moonlight cascaded over the landscape in a sliver sea.

"And emotionally?" he prompted gently.

"Boris is as supportive as he possibly could be, given the circumstance." She drew a ragged breath. "I can't shake this overwhelming sense of guilt for everything. What I've done to him. Just the thought of what happened- I can't sleep. It's to hard to share a bed with him. Even a house. Anywhere seems too close. It's like there's this chasm between us. When we're together, all I can think about is that I'm pregnant with another man's child." Now she was restraining tears. "He finds any excuse to stay away. There's this impenetrable steel constantly in his gaze whenever he looks at me- I should have never told him." Johnathan placed a comforting arm around her shoulder like a brother. He jerked his head, beckoning for her to follow him to a bench.

"Marisa, meet my eyes. Boris could _never_ ate you. I've seen the way he looks at you. The man is deeply in love."

"But he's also hurt."

"Yes." There way no way to deny that. "As if something within him died." _He wants revenge. But I don't want to tell you that. You see it too well already._

"When your life was raped, did she ever tell you that it was her fault?"

Death seized his eyes. Memories from when they had fled the civil war and genocide in Burundi crashed over him again like the Atlantic in winter. In his mind's eye, the man who had seen too much of life nodded solemnly.

"Many, many times. I could never convince her she held no blame for what those bastards did to her." Fists clenched against the sensation of utter helplessness. Seeing Marisa endure this was like having to relive every atrocious detail over again. Taking a deep breath, he continued, voice shaking slightly. "When I close my eyes, I can still see her pleading my forgiveness, tears streaming down her cheeks in the darkness. Two days before she was murdered. She never believed me that there was nothing to forgive her for."

Marisa was so much like him. Looking at her was almost like seeing himself.

Jonathan placed a strong hand on her shoulder. The melodic lilt to his voice seemed to carry peace with it. "Patience. Healing will come. Slowly, sometimes painfully. But it will come. The Lord will never abandon you, Marisa. Even when it seems He has. That is the greatest thing I have ever learned."

* * *

Cool mettle of her watch slipped back and fourth through her fingers, cascading from one and to the other. His indecipherable expression and guarded glances twisted her stomach into knots. Sitting with legs crossed, hands in his lap, he hadn't so much as touched her all day.

"So that's good, yes?" Boris looked hopefully between Hank and Marisa. She nodded encouragingly to the other man for him to continue.

"Yeah. Um, everything looks good right now. We won't know for sure for a few more weeks if it's completely out of her system yet-." His phone buzzed obnoxiously and he snapped it open. "I'm sorry. It's Divya." He disappeared, mumbling something about Evan and idiots. As the door slammed shut, Boris turned to her.

"An agent from the FBI barged into my office today asking about you." Suddenly, her body stiffened. "She accused me of being involved with the Cuban government."

_Soto has someone in the FBI._

"Do you remember anything I told you about my time in the army?"

"Yes," he nodded wearily. "Does that have something to do with why you were arrested?"

"A colonel I worked with, the one that renditioned me. He was waiting when I left Jakob Stryer's yesterday." Every muscle in his body went ridged at that. He remembered all too well. Irises turned to molten silver.

"He told me I was a brilliant_ fantasma._"

"So he called you a phantom..." he echoed, confused.

"Boris, that is the name the Guard calls those they are sent to execute."


	4. Half Remembered Dream

He couldn't bear to look at her, to see her and remember what they'd shared. She was the only woman he had ever truly loved. The only person he had allowed past his intricately crafted fortifications. The pain of loosing her husband had murdered his mother. He had never wanted to injure anyone that way. So he kept his distance. Yet around his lover, he hadn't possessed the strength to maintain the impenetrable walls that had held since he watched his father - a formidable rival to Osiris himself - melt away into no more than a defenseless specter. He had vowed never to allow anyone so close to him.

Then again, perhaps she was exactly what he needed so desperately.

A blade stabbed him through the heart each time he had to force himself to see her - and remember she what she had endured. The tortured brokenness haunting her gaze tore him limb from limb. Guilt crushed him beneath tons of granite.

Elation and agony dashed the breath from his lungs when she revealed her torment. Dazed, he only managed her name, desperate to understand why she could not bring herself to trust him. Before she vanished.

With all the strength he processed, he severed any emotional connection with her. His only choice. And with it, he died. The sensation of complete apathy toward the woman he loved more than his very life terrified him. And toward her child. So he turned his back and fled. Because he could not bare the thought of abandoning them.

* * *

"I'm sure he'll be glad to hear that." Boris nodded curtly by way of thanks.

"He's a genius lad. Though last time he couldn't stop laughing at mi accent." The Scotsman shook her head in amusement. Snapping his folder shut, he swept his eyes across the now-deserted conference room. It was only mid-afternoon and already it had been too long a day. Too long a week.

"Go home, Keith. Get some rest. You've been here too long." His vice-CEO stalled at the hallway, remembering something. Her Scottish lilt darkened in jest.

"Oh, by the way… Romashi Investments called. They're finally ready to talk. I told them they could go through me for the next few weeks. Possibly a wee bit earlier, on the off chance you felt so inclined. They don't want this getting out to the public. I've never heard that man so close to hysteria." She arched an eyebrow as she turned to leave. "Apparently something to do with a wayward accountant in Sweden who's about to make the FBI's Most Wanted…"

"Miss Keith?"

"Aye, sir?"

"Tell Grayson I'll put him out of him misery by Friday when I get back to New York. In return, he is not to bother me this weekend for _any_ reason. I do not care if Stalin himself comes searching for him. Understood?"

"Of course." A knowing, mischievous smirk curved her mouth before she slipped through the door. "And I will not ask what is so important."

Boris dragged a hand down his face. One of the world's largest financial corporations flung prostrate at his feet, begging for grace. He'd be buried in work till at least 2200. Possibly midnight.

_Stony eyes cut to the figure in the figure emerging from his father's study. Arms crossed over his chest, the teenager straightened unconsciously. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, voice mirroring his gaze. An amused chuckle escaped his intruder._

"_You really don't like me, do you Boris? Why?"_

"'_Like' has nothing to do with it. I simply don't trust you, Grayson. You're a wretched little viper," he bit out the last sentence in Japanese, proud when he only shot him a confused look._

"_You're only fifteen, lad. Don't go begging for fights you can't win. Besides, your father seems to like me quite well." A flash of white disappeared into the pocket of his black suit jacket. He recognized his father's signature on the back and his stomach churned. "We've just become very close partners." Grayson smirked viciously. "An extremely generous man. Quite generous indeed…"_

_Boris couldn't help the hair bristling on the back of his neck at the thought of that bastard taking advantage of his dying father._

Only the first of many.

* * *

Before him was such a different man than he had witnessed in the months since they'd met. Leaning against the balcony railing, eyes trailed his benefactor as he paced the room, like… Hank couldn't say. His usually controlled, tranquil exterior had all but vanished in the wake of another state, utterly foreign. Something about him seemed almost... frantic.

And yet, simultaneously the exact opposite.

"Do you want me to come home early? I can finish what I need to in the Hamptons. Keith can manage the rest here for a few days."

"I have a heavy case load this week. I'm meeting with a trial candidate in Manhattan on Saturday. I haven't really been home much, Boris."

"Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I promise."

"That's what you told me the last time." She couldn't miss the sadness in his voice, subtle as it was.

Vulnerable. At last it registered. Hank had only begun to see minute snatches of it in the last few weeks. He thought he'd been seeing things.

Boris worked another button loose on his royal blue dress shirt - Marisa's favorite. His suit jacket and tie lay flung over a chair in the living room from when he'd stormed in, too distraught to think clearly.

"Let Malachi stay with you," he nearly yelled.

"No," she ground out firmly. "Boris, I already told you-"

"Will you just _listen_ to me? Please?"

"You never used to be like this."

"Because your _life _wasn't at stake."

"So you're allowed to play Russian roulette but I'm not? I'm fully aware of what I'm risking." The sudden leveled calm of her tone frightened him.

"Marisa, that is an entirely different matter."

"If I disobey him, I die." Just as it had always been. "Kim and Nduta need me. I have to go." Silence.

Her words clinked dully in his mind, disbelief she meant them masking desperation and panic. Could she truly disregard her very life as if it no longer held any value?

Snapping the phone shut, he narrowly resisted the impulse to heave it across the room and watch it fragment against the wall.

From the outside, the whole scene appeared completely pedestrian. Simply two arguing lovers.

And yet there existed nothing pedestrian about this.

Not with them.

* * *

Late afternoon light illuminated Washington's capital building dominating the skyline blocks away. The heat had tapered off as the sun migrated toward the horizon. Normally tourist-infested landmarks settled into grand tranquility. His head of security lingered a few yards behind. A small smile played at his mouth. Marisa had taken to calling Malachi his praetorian perfect. As if he were a grand emperor of Rome instead of a ruthless businessman and member of an archaic aristocracy, who had made lethal enemies.

"Something is on your mind, Hank." The other man's head snapped up at the sudden intrusion of sound. "What is it that's bothering you?"

"How's Marisa doing?"

"If you want to know, why don't you simply ask her yourself?" He shrugged. "You speak with her more than I do right now. Perhaps _I_ should be the one asking _you_ that question."

"Why didn't Marisa come with you this week? If you need me, surly you'd need her."

"Are you going to scold me again? I am not a child, Hank." Boris sighed wearily. "That cannot be your only reason. You said you wished to speak with me. What is this really about?"

Gazes locked; brown flashed with an undercurrent of accusation, though his words remained level.

"She had fresh bruises and scraps all over her body, and she moved like her ribs had been re-injured-"

"You believe I would hurt her?"

"No. But I have to ask. I want to make sure she's all right and-"

"You're concerned for the baby." Surprise stole over his features, closely followed by a measure of relief, as if he'd been holding his breath.

"I take it Marisa told you?" Steel edged with deep pain marked his low answering words.

"That she was tortured and repeatedly gang raped while she was in prison? That I am in fact _not_ the father of the child she's carrying? Yes. She did."

He clenched his fists to quell furious tremors that for the first time in his life bore no threat of descending death.

Blurs of lush green and towering granite floated past as Hank fell into step again.

"You were arguing with someone on the phone earlier. You looked frustrated, angry."

"Hank, this doesn't concern you. None of this holds any medical relevancy whatsoever."

"If you're angry at her about the baby for some reason-"

"Hank, I'm not angry with Marisa. She'll hardly talk to me-"

"Then what else is it?"

"Marisa has engineered countless miracles for me, but I can't seem to do anything to help her now. She's suffering and I'm powerless to prevent it." Boris kept his gaze anchored in front of him, lest he lose his composure. "As you know, I have never had the luxury of time. If she does decide to raise the child, I have only a handful of years at most-"

"But her research shows great potential. Marisa could very well find a cure. Possibly within months."

"Yes, I know," he nodded. His voice hardened. "But what if she doesn't? She would believe my death to be her fault. I refuse to abandon her that way." Hank opened his mouth, but snapped it shut just as hastily. Boris' eyes flashed. "She understands. But a child couldn't."

"Then at least be with her while you can."

* * *

_Petite footsteps echoed off the stone floor, racing toward the end of the deserted hall. Black-clad giants towered ahead; he called out and the middle figure turned. He slammed into hard legs, clung to them. Bright gray irises tilted up to meet strong viridian._

_Bending down, he playfully ruffled his son's hair before scooping him up into his arms. Boris dissolved into giggles as his father continued to tickle him mercilessly._

_"Daddy! Stop! It tickles!" he shrieked through uncontrollable laughter. "Stop, Daddy! It tickles! It tickles! Daddy!" Complying, the duke gently set him back on his feet and knelt to his level._

_"I'll see you tonight, ok Boris? Be good and obey your mother." He pressed his lips to his cheek and quickly hugged him once more before ducking into his car._

_"Bye, Daddy," he waved after him. "See ya."_

A sharp nock broke him from his reverie.

"James. I thought you'd gone home."

"Grayson gave me these for you after our meeting this afternoon. My apologies for not getting them to you sooner."

He extended a single sheet of paper. Snatching it, Boris' eyes flew over the document, all too accustomed to legal jargon. Eyes narrowed in suspicion; anger chilled his veins.

"He's suing me?"

* * *

She couldn't bare the expression in his piercing gray irises that exposed the very depths of her soul to his eyes. The disgust, the hatred, the defensive condemnation - and, _impossible _- sorrow? Stripping her bare before him. As she had found herself so many times before. The reflections she found in them chilled her to the bone.

But the worst were the covert, stolen glances when he seemed unaware of the sixth sense she had developed for him, his gaze, his presence. For that was when the agony, the enmity - for having allowed himself to love, and for her deceit - are etched nakedly into his features.

Her life had ebbed from conflict, her existence forged from steal. In a place where someone would gladly spill the blood of family and friends to insure their own breath remained, trust was impossible - lethal. From childhood, she learned she could only rely on herself. She couldn't afford the ties that provoked rash decisions. A foreigner, he had stood outside harm's reach. Yet she had been the one to wound him.

It felt as if she were dying. Perhaps she already was.

Black letters melded against the stark page; she couldn't allow herself to dwell on Boris right now. Marisa forced her attention back to the file in front of her. None of it made any sense. Exasperated, she sifted through the myriad of test results and a medical history scattered on her desk thick enough to pass for a novel. Fourteen doctors had simply thrown their hands up in surrender and kicked Sam on to the next, clueless.

It didn't make sense. Except…

Ice shot up her spine.

Snatching up the phone, she jabbed in her number. Moments like this, she despised her job.

"_What_?" Eyes wide, Sam stared in disbelief at the woman sitting across from her. This couldn't be happening.

"Late-onset Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva. It's extremely rare, which explains why no one caught it before." _But that shouldn't be an excuse. _"It means your tissue muscles, and ligaments are slowly turning to bone. Your joints will eventually fuse together." Sam ran a hand down her face.

"I did hear right. And to think I wanted an answer." Sighing heavily, she raised her eyes again. "What are my options?"

"There aren't any treatments, but the fact that it's late-onset combined with your age means it's extremely slow-progressing. You have almost none of the usual symptoms. From the three cases I know of, it could take three, four decades or more before it gets serious. There very well could be treatments by then, maybe even cures."

"That means I can just go back to life?"

"More or less." Marisa offered a empathetic smile. She knew all too well what it felt like having her life torn apart. "Without the football games, though, I'm afraid. Injuries can exacerbate the condition and cause the bone to fuse faster."

"So, just no hitting the ground at seventy miles an hour and I'm good."

"We'll monitor your health very closely, see how your disease progresses and how fast, and adjust accordingly."

Numbly, Sam nodded. She was dying of some freak-of-nature disease and yet the woman opposite her actually saw her as a person, not just another case file. Lips curved at the irony. Apparently, it only took fifteen doctors to find someone competent enough to actually knew what they were doing.

* * *

_Blank eyes brushed over the eternal blue cast out before her. Apathy ebbed into a crescendoing ache deep within her bones…_

_Handing her a water bottle, he discreetly surveyed her condition. Sleep had dragged her under for the first few hours of their flight. Subtle marks of torture proclaimed themselves against her olive skin, though he knew she'd tried to conceal them. Marisa smiled weakly in thanks as he sank into the seat next to her._

"_They weren't going to let me die of thirst, Boris. They couldn't afford it." Still, she downed a few grateful sips before rising. He looked up at her inquiringly. "I need to see if I can clean up a little."_

_The gash on her left side burnt almost unbearably. She had to stem the bleeding before crimson seeped through her shirt and Boris saw. Clicking the bathroom door in place, she fished out the first aid kit from under the sink. Deep brown eyes stared back at her in her reflection. A myriad of emotions thrashed violently in her heart. Tentatively, she placed a hand over her stomach. _

_She had known all along, hadn't she? She was pregnant._

_Tangible evidence of the greatest agony she had survived._

* * *

Dying sunlight drifted through the windows. Hardened muscles forged of his loathing of death encompassed her, guarding her. Perfect bronze skin melded with flowing black satin hair tumbling across the pillows. Sleepily, his gaze met hers.

Adoring gray eyes.

"_Te amo. Me encantas. Para siempre."_ How could he say that, after all he knew? That he loved her, adored her?

The praises he had whispered against her skin while they were consumed in fire, he repeated now in her native tongue. Reverently, decisively, sure of his aim. He'd done everything in his power to declare how much he loved and treasured her. In the aftermath, they lay still entangled in each other, his arm slung gently across her waist. As if nothing had changed between them. His mouth lazily grazed her collarbone, shoulder, neck, her mouth. Fingertips grazed her skin, outlining her curves, sketching a sea of raised scars.

"Boris? What are you doing?" she queried wearily. Pressing a tender kiss to the curve of her neck, he shrugged lightly.

"Admiring your body."

"Like this…?"

She cast her gaze helplessly over her bare figure. Nodding minutely in assurance, he let his mouth fall to hers again, the gesture deep and lingering. Around him, she had become incredibly self-conscious of the scars littering her skin. Did she think they would make him see her as weak? Nothing could be farther from reality.

"They're proof of how strong you are. Most people couldn't have survived what you went through." Flesh against flesh, exposed and vulnerable, his strong arms felt like an iron prison instead of a refuge. "That's what you're concerned about?"

Without answering, she slipped from beneath the covers. Sun-saturated air danced across her skin, rushing shivers up her spine. His eyes never left her. Marisa froze at the foot of the bed, unable to move at the sheer intensity of his gaze as it caught hers.

She stood before him, divested of any barriers. For what seemed an eternity, he could only stare, needing to take in the sight, captivated: immeasurably beautiful and marvelous, entirely without equal in his eyes, his heart, his life. It had been so long since she had allowed him to truly see her. Those dark, fathomless eyes…

Overwhelmed, unable to bare the emotions in his graphite irises, her gaze darted to the floor. Fear and doubt and shame hollowed out her insides as his sweeping gaze lingered again for a moment on the gentle curve of her stomach. Evidence that she was used, broken. Heat crept up to stain her cheeks even as painful cold gripped her heart. At last, he had seen her. And abhorred what he found.

She crossed to the other side of the room to shrug on her own shirt, even though his lay discarded within arm's reach of where she'd lain only moments before.

"Marisa, did I hurt you?" Boris queried anxiously.

"No," she responded coolly after a moment. She lifted her gaze to meet his over her shoulder. Her features were carved into that terrible, beautiful mask he'd come to loathe and fear.

They were married in all but name; she loved him more than she had ever believed possible.

And she couldn't quell the horrid feeling that somehow she had just defiled him.

* * *

Marisa never thought she'd be so thankful to see Friday. Forceful voices overrunning one another floated from Boris' study as she passed. What could he be doing, planning World War III? Leaning against the great wooden door, she silently observed the mob of suited men and women around the oak table in the center of the room.

Sunset poured in from the wall of windows on the other side, bled fiery hues into everything before her. He had to know she was here. He had developed a sixth sense for her presence; she for him.

His head snapped up at the sound of her voice. He eyed her from behind a pair of graphite glasses briefly before tossing them to the tabletop along with a file the size of a novel. Tilting her head to the side, she couldn't help a fleeting smile before she sobered. Darkness saturated his gaze as he caught sight of her.

"That's enough for tonight," he snapped in German. "We'll return to this tomorrow." At his command, the space emptied in moments. Heals clicked on the hardwood floor as she crossed to him.

"Boris, what is this about?"

"James Grayson has decided to take legal action against my company. Ludicrous claims regarding embezzlement, fraud, conspiracy with enemy nations, anything he could dream up, I imagine. He managed to make it appear legitimate enough to warrant a federal investigation and I have to find a strong way to counter him." Meeting her deep brown eyes, he took hold of her hands. "Marisa, I need you to be careful. Grayson stole a great deal from my family's business. Our child, as my heir, is a threat to him. So are you. He wants to take over this company and will not hesitate to employ murder to achieve it."

Grayson had pried his fortune from his father's hands, generously uncurled in the midst of his own blissful hell.

And now he planned to do the same to him.


End file.
